


Moonblood

by JackieFord



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Canon - Video Game, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Multi, Mystery Kids, Original Character(s), Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), lmao i cant believe thats a tag but it fits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-10-19 21:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20663732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackieFord/pseuds/JackieFord
Summary: After finding something far from home that which the witcher Geralt of Rivia did not expect, he unravels the puzzling tragedy of a family afflicted by a curse as his own family welcomes a new member to their home.





	1. The Morning After

He was getting old and soft, Geralt thought. After three years of living in the idyllic duchy of Toussaint, under the roof of Corvo Bianco and with plenty of crowns and free time to spare for the first time, he had - much to his own dismay - undoubtedly gotten used to all of it. With the ever-steady supply of the finest wine just under the foundation of the estate and his own personal staff to tend to the homemaking, he had become just a little less than the hardy witcher he was just a handful of years ago. The days that he had spent mostly in bed, eating brunch, and savoring Erveluce with Yennefer felt like pleasant boat rides down a slow, winding river on a warm autumn day. Retirement was something he never thought he wanted until he had it.

The air in Novigrad was more fetid than he had remembered. He found that he almost always noticed the stench of cheap wine and sweaty clothes, no matter how faint it was. At times, he wished that he was capable of doing magic of a more complex nature, like a spell that could dampen his Witcher sense of smell. Maybe he could ask Yennefer about a spell of such nature.

He looked over his shoulder to see her on the dressing table of the room, delicately and ever so deftly applying eyeliner. He smiled at the sight, at the face she would make whenever she was putting her face on; her eyes would soften and she would be slightly slack-jawed. It was adorable, though he was sure she wouldn’t be so appreciative of being described out loud as such.

He walked over and stood behind her, the smell of her sweet perfume wafting to his nose.

‘Can’t wait to get back home,’ he said.

‘Agreed. Though, I must admit, I enjoyed the revels of last night more than I thought I would.’

Geralt chuckled. She hadn’t been too thrilled about leaving Toussaint for the wedding, and he didn’t exactly blame her. She insisted on just coming to present a gift to the newly-weds and bidding their wishes for happiness and health and so on, then teleporting home straight away after. He had convinced her to stay, however. The last time they were all together at the Chameleon, he had reminded her, was just before the fight against the Wild Hunt. Frankly, he had missed his troubadour friend and the rest of the attendants that Dandelion had invited.

‘I’ve never thought of you as being a dancer. Where in the world did you learn how to jig?’

‘Learned it from a dead man.’

She looked at him now with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile. ‘Mm. Must’ve been quite the story.’

‘You know of it. It was at a wedding. The whole thing was part of that contract with O’Dimm, remember?’

‘Ah, right.’ She turned to her mirror once again, this time putting on her lipstick. When she was done, she affixed her obsidian star around her neck.

She stood up, and with a wave of her hand, her raiment of black and white materialized on her skin. She turned to Geralt and gave him a kiss.

‘I can’t wait to get home though,’ he muttered, placing his hand on her cheek.

‘I agree.’ She kissed his lips once more.

If not for the fact that the wedding had been Dandelion and Priscilla’s, neither of them would have probably come. The same could be said for some of the other attendants – Ciri, Triss, and Regis. Even Dudu the doppler had come, still under the guise of one Cyprian Wiley, whose death at the hands of a certain Witcher still remained a secret to the rest of Novigrad. The witch hunts did not end with the war, and neither did the murders and burnings of non-humans and mages, though now they occur in secret - beyond the walls of the city. Nilfgaard may have official control over Novigrad now, but by no means have the Eternal Fire and its zealots died out. How Dandelion managed to track them all down, Geralt did not bother to find out, nor did he want to. Eskel came as well, to the surprise of Geralt. He had happened to be with Triss when she had received the invitation letter and had decided to tag along, knowing Geralt would have likely attended as well. Geralt hardly believed that it was only happenstance that they were together when the invitation had reached Triss. He suspected that something perhaps more meaningful was developing between the two, though he did not question them throughout the night.

He cleared his throat. ‘Although... Can we go by boat this time?’

Yennefer’s face lost all its softness now. ‘No.’ She stepped away from him and started to fold her night robe which lay on the bed.

‘Oh, come on now. You’ve had your way coming here. It would only be fair if I had my way now.’

‘True,’ she replied, not facing him as she put away her night robe in their travel trunk. ‘Though I simply don’t feel like spending a week on a rotting ship with gingivitis-bearing seamen and bedding in their putrid cabins.’.

He sighed. ‘Can I at least try to convince you? I did manage to convince you to stay last night.’

She let out a noise of acknowledgment. ‘Maybe.’

‘Come on, I’ll go down to the docks and see if I can find us a nice caravel. I’ve got the crowns for it.’ He walked over to her an met her eyes.

‘It would only be seven days at most. Just you and me.’ He gave her what he thought would be an endearing smile, but she only smiled in amusement at how gauche it was.

‘Alright. Fine, you’ve convinced me. But if you don’t find that ship, I’m teleporting without you.’

* * *

When Geralt came downstairs, the others were already sitting together at a table, talking amongst each other over a brunch of pastry, meats, and juice. Triss and Eskel were nowhere to be seen and Regis was gone, having called an early night last night and bid his goodbye well before midnight. Geralt sat next to Priscilla and Dandelion, who was chatting away with Ciri across the table.

Dandelion grinned at him in greeting and patted his back. ‘Geralt! Good morning. I hope you and Yennefer found the lodging satisfactory?’

‘Thanks, we did. Where are Triss and Eskel?’

‘Left together early this morning. Triss said she had to get back to an official affair in Kovir, but I suspect she might be having an affair of another nature,’ Ciri replied with an impish smile.

‘Hm. Yeah, I suspected as well too. What do you think, Dandelion?’

‘Well, I think that it further proves my theory that witchers and sorceresses do have an inexplicable attraction towards each other. You and Yennefer, Eskel and Triss, Keira and Lambert...’

‘How did you know about Keira and Lambert?’

‘Ciri told me. She told me of how Keira saved him from the warriors of the Wild Hunt during the battle of Kaer Morhen and how they had decided to travel together!’

‘I think we’re due for a new ballad, don’t you?’ Priscilla added.

Dandelion brushed a strand of hair away from his bride’s face and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘That we are, my dear.’

Geralt smiled at the couple. He couldn’t help but soak up the warmth and comfort shared between the two as they embraced. ‘You two have any honeymoon plans?’

‘Well,’ the troubadour started, his voice becoming pragmatic. ‘We were thinking of taking a year-long journey across the Continent. Kovir and Poviss, Lyria and Rivia, perhaps Dol Blathanna… And maybe even Toussaint! We could come to your estate, join you and Yennefer in your retirement.’

The witcher pulled a sour face at him.

‘Kidding! I just wanted to see how you’d react. Clearly, we’d have to stay somewhere a little more low-profile if we were to visit Toussaint, on account of the Duchess that is.’

Ciri raised an eyebrow at Dandelion. ‘The Duchess? Why?’

‘Long story. Just leave it,’ Geralt responded, raising a hand dismissively. Ciri only shrugged at that.

The chatting quieted down for some time as they ate away at their foods. Ciri, who had been on the Path for a good ten months with only dried fruits, stale bread and thin stews to fill her belly, devoured the sumptuous meal set before her with great relish. Geralt noticed that she looked a tad bit skinnier than she was the last time he saw her at Corvo Bianco, where she had Wintered for four years in a row. The life of a Witcher is not known to be an easy and extravagant life. Coin did not come easy nor do the people who give the coin, this he knew. He suddenly longed for Ciri to come back home, to Toussaint, to him and Yennefer.

‘I’m going to go find a ship headed to Toussaint. Come with Yennefer and me?’

‘Now? But it’s not even winter yet. Still another couple of months to go. Although, I might stay in Zerrikania for the rest of the year until then. Skellige is becoming awfully cold and Velen is a just so gloomy,’ Ciri replied as she chewed on a sausage.

‘You can keep taking contracts in Toussaint, it’s not like people don’t have monster problems there.’

The witcheress chuckled at that. ‘I thought that you’ve dealt with every single archespore and giant centipede infestation there. Seems one witcher in Toussaint is enough, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, come on. You know that isn’t true,’ he said, slightly vexed.

‘I’m teasing, silly. Of course I know. Still, I think it’s just a little too early to come home. I’ll spend the next couple of months in Zerrikania then I’ll head straight to Corvo Bianco.’ She smiled at him, a tender, knowing smile, her fingers on his calloused ones.

The old witcher sighed, nodding. He knew that she never liked doing things that are not of her own accord. Still, it did not lessen the wistfulness in his heart for her. ‘Alright, but stay here a little while for Yennefer, won’t you? I’ve still got a ship to look for and I need someone to make sure she doesn’t cast a portal to Toussaint without me.’

* * *

As Geralt walked towards the docks, he could not help but notice the by-passers - nobles and peasants alike - who scowled and grimaced at the sight of him. Perhaps it was another thing he had gotten too used to in Toussaint. Although it had been jarring initially, he came to like the Toussantois’ overt appreciation of him. Children would call out to him by name whenever he would ride by and crowd around him, ogling his latest trophy and feeding apples to his mare. The merchants would greet him warmly, always, and offer sincere wishes of wellness for the witcher and his lady. A young couple even came up to him, once, and said that they would name their unborn son after him; tourney champion and the hero of Toussaint, vanquisher of the Beast. The elderly vintners were always glad to share their finest bottle of Est Est and Fiorano, often alongside a game of gwent.

He remembered, during the first year of living in the duchy, he had received letters upon letters from enamored admirers. He recalled a couple of letters from men even, who had professed to have been struck by amour fou after spectating the knights’ tourney. He had meant to rid himself of the letters, but the task somehow eluded him after some time. When Yennefer had first come to Corvo Bianco, she had found them stashed away in a dense, messy pile inside a drawer. Surprisingly, she had found it more amusing than she had been vexed.

‘Love letters?’ she had teased Geralt. ‘My, I’ve quite the competition. Let’s hope you don’t conveniently lose your memory this time and run off with another red-haired maiden into the sunflower fields.’

Among the herds of hulks, cogs, drifters, and other fishing vessels, he spotted a lofty carrack that bore the emblem of Toussaint – a knight with a flag in hand, atop a steed in the foreground of scarlet. A haughty-looking man dressed in white and yellow stood on the jetty next to the boat. Several seamen were working at unloading hefty crates from the ship. The man on the jetty squawked at them in a way that reminded Geralt of that one chamberlain in the royal palace in Vizima.

‘You the captain of this ship?’

The man turned to face Geralt, his garb now plain to see as Toussantois. ‘Goodness, me? No, I’m the chief mate, Leclerc Mercier. And you are?’

‘Geralt of Rivia. Know where I can find the captain of this ship?’

Leclerc’s face lit up in realization. ‘And so you are! My wife and son have told me a great deal about you. You see, my duties as a chief mate requires that I be out at sea for a good part of the year. I was en route to Kovir and Poviss when the beast of Toussaint had attacked. If it weren’t for you, why, I would not know what fate might have befallen my family on the Night of Long Fangs. What a pleasure it is to finally see the hero himself in the flesh.’ He jauntily shook Geralt’s hand. ‘However, I’m afraid you won’t find the captain around at the moment. He’s um...’ He cupped his chin with his fingers as he searched for his words. ‘He’s off… enjoying the local divertissement.’

‘I see. Well, maybe you can help me then? I’m looking for a ship headed back to Toussaint and I was wondering if you’ve got a spare cabin for two.’

‘Well, I suppose you can take up the cabin the third mate usually occupies as he’s not with us at the moment. I believe that you’ll find it plenty roomy for two. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, if you’ll take it.’

‘Sounds good. And I assume you’ll be expecting coin for that?’

Leclerc threw his hands in the air and shook his head. ‘No, that won’t be needed. Take it as an expression of gratitude from me. Moreover, having a member of the Order of Vitis Vinifera onboard this ship would be an honor! I’m sure the captain would think the same’

Geralt gave him a courteous smile. Good old Toussaintois generosity. ‘You sure the captain wouldn’t mind if we hitched a free ride?’

‘I am certain.’

* * *

With the task of finding a ship now completed and with naught a coin spared, the witcher was feeling quite pleased with himself. He set out to return to the Chameleon, weaving through the now crowded streets of Novigrad. He was quite eager to get on the route back to Toussaint the next morning. The smell of dust, sweat and stale wine wafting through the air had been intensified with the noon sun hanging in the sky.

‘Master Witcher!’

Geralt spun to see a spindly-looking man shoving his way against the busy crowd towards him. The man looked sickly, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot. He looked emaciated, his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes on his grimy face gave an impression of a starved monster. In his eyes, Geralt saw a look of desperation and anger.

‘I couldn’t believe me eyes when I saw you at the docks! Haven’t been a single Witcher ‘round here this past year.’

‘I’m actually retired,’ Geralt said, crossing his arms.

‘Oh, but you must help me. Help us. Those damned black’uns won’t listen! They made us abandon the village but we know it still ain’t safe. Not with that monster still prowling about the woods.’

Geralt narrowed his eyes. ‘What monster?’

‘A werewolf, master. It attacked th’ village one night, my village. Burst through the doors of the neighbors' hut and slaughtered ‘em all. When my wife heard their screams, she woke me up and we took our babe and ran and so did everyone else. In all the panic, my wife and I got separated. A nearby Nilfgaardian outpost heard the uproar an’ th’ soldiers managed to drive the monster away.’ The frail man’s eyes bore into Geralt’s, his face becoming desperate. ‘They were too late, you see. My wife and my daughter. Both dead. Nothing but a pulp of blood and flesh.’

Geralt frowned deeply and lowered his gaze. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m in no position to do this right now. Didn’t even bring my silver sword. Was just visiting the city for an affair.’

‘Please,’ the man said, his voice cracking. ‘If you’ve an ounce of compassion, master, you’d surely sympathize.’ He held out a heavy pouch, his bony hand trembling. ‘I’ll give you the payment upfront. The survivors an’ I, we pitched in, almost all of our coin this is – three ‘undred crowns. We’ve got nothing to lose anymore. We just want that beast gone for good an’ our families avenged’

Geralt sighed. ‘Where is this village?’

‘Just north-east beyond the Oxenfurt Gate. Only an hour ride from there.’ He looked upon Geralt with a pleading gaze, his heart in his mouth.

‘Alright, fine. I’ll do it. But keep the payment for after the job’s done.’

The man let out a ragged breath of relief. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you, master. You’ve no idea how much this means to me, to us.’ He briefly reveled in a moment of consolation before speaking again. ‘The survivors an’ I are camped in Arette just next to the Oxenfurt Gate. You can find us there. I’ll tell them you’ve taken the contract!’

Geralt watched the man walk away and disappear into the rabble, his arms still crossed. The day would be longer than he thought.


	2. The Contract

The summer sun of the northern skies stung the skin noticeably less than it did in the south, much to Geralt’s relief. Even with the sky only partially shrouded by clouds, the air was only slightly warm in the dense, dusty city. The witcher, with his white hair and feline eyes, stuck out in the crowd of dark tunics and tan dresses. He turned the heads of the city dwellers and guards as he made his way to the Chameleon.

Regular patrons had already arrived at the tavern for lunch and the ensemble of minstrels were raring away on the stage. However, Yennefer and Ciri were nowhere to be found. Geralt could only find Zoltan, the dwarf, who was attending to a large pot of mutton stew behind the bar. When he saw Geralt, he ladled sizeable portions of the steaming stew into two porringers and handed one to the witcher. The two sat at a corner table. 

‘Thought you’d be off with Yennefer and Cirilla. Where have you been this morning, eh?’ The dwarf took a spoon to his mouth and cursed rowdily when it was evident that the soup was still too hot.

‘Went to go find a ship headed to Toussaint. Although, now I’ve got another errand to run.’

‘Ah, Yennefer sendin’ you off tae the perfumerie?’

‘No, actually. A man approached me with a contract. Supposedly-’

‘O-ho, let me guess. A leshy’s snatched a lord’s son? A forktail’s swallowed some poor maiden’s lover? A vampire’s drained the life from a constable’s bairn?’

‘Ravaging werewolf on the outskirts of the city. Supposedly almost wiped out a whole village. One of the survivors spotted me at the docks and offered payment upfront.’

‘And did ye take it?’

Geralt chewed on a piece of lamb before responding. ‘No. Didn’t feel like I needed to.’

At Geralt’s answer, the dwarf raised an eyebrow at the Witcher, chuckling. He raised a stout arm and whistled to the cook behind the bar. ‘Oi, Adger! Brin’ us some of that Lyrian kriek.’

Geralt shrugged. ‘They were a bunch of stragglers, said they used up all they had to pay for a witcher. Didn’t feel right to just take it without going to see if the beast is still even around. Who knows, maybe the Nilfgaardian outpost’s beat me to it.’

The boy came with two full tankards of foaming kriek and set it down silently on the table.

The two continued to eat in silence, spooning the last of their stew out of the porringers and downing their drinks.

Zoltan called out to the boy once again, who was looking exasperated keeping up with a rowdy group of patrons who had spilled a jug of juice over the bar. ‘Boy! A sandwich and water tae go fer the gentleman here.’

‘So, I suppose ye’ll be needin’ a sword and some herbs and whatnot? And perhaps… Attire a bit more suited for the job?’ Zoltan inquired, eyeing Geralt’s shirt and tunic.

‘Yeah, sword’s gotta be silver though. There’s an herbalist just outside of the city, to the east. Do you know Éibhear Hattori?’

‘Sure. Elf who runs the forge at the Glory Lane district, yeah? Nilfgaardian’s been keepin’ ‘im busy these days. Last I heard though, poor fellaw’s had a case of a break in. Said a thief broke in durin’ the night and swiped almost awl his silver. In fact, folk say there’s been a silver thief on the loose these past few months. A jeweler or blacksmith gets robbed ev’ry other week and they say it’s always the silver. Nothing else. Ores, jewelry, bowls, cups, you name it. All o’ them silver.’

With a grunt, Zoltan hopped down from the bench and went to rummage through a locked chest behind the bar. From it, he pulled out a dark, dusty brigandine and a pair of leather spaulders that looked familiar to the witcher. Dusting them off, he handed it to Geralt.

‘’ere. Dunno if you remember, but these are yours. You left them behind, just before you went tae face off the Wild Hunt. Thought I might keep it with me – just in case.’

The brigandine and spaulders, though old and rather stiff, fit Geralt well over his shirt. He remembered where he had them forged – the modest keep of Baron Phillip Strenger in Velen. He briefly wondered where the old Baron was now.

The tired looking boy handed Geralt a crudely wrapped parcel and a leather canteen without a word, sighed, and returned to tending to the noisy patrons.

‘Thanks. Say, you’ve got a horse I could borrow for a day?’

‘Aye, sure. Come.’ The dwarf led him outside and across the now boisterous tavern, where a dirty donkey and two horses stood tethered to a fence, drinking from a trough.

Zoltan led away the taller of the horses, palomino in color. ‘This ‘ere’s called Aspen. Dandelion thought it right to get him and the mistress matchin’ horses right after he sat on his hunkers and popped the question. A mean, what ya’ expect from the bastard? Fine steed though, have tae admit.’ The horse held its head high almost indignantly, kicking up dust with a hoof.

Geralt hoisted his body swiftly onto the stallion and patted it on its neck. It knickered gently and huffed at his touch. ‘Thanks, Zoltan. If she returns before I do, tell Yennefer I’ll be back before midnight and that I’ve found a ship set for tomorrow morning.’

‘Aye, friend. And be careful wi’ that horse!’

* * *

A mountain of a man, bald, with skin on his arms like leather and tattoos on his neck greeted Geralt when he had arrived at the smithy.

‘Is Éibhear around?’

‘Who’s askin’?’

‘I am. Geralt of Rivia.’

The man scratched his pocked face. ‘Don’t think he mentioned a Geralt would be comin’ round. Haven’t seen you ‘round ‘ere either.’

‘Haven’t been here in a few years. Need to ask him for a favor, he’s an old friend.’

The burly man crossed his rough arms and bore his gaze onto Geralt’s. ‘Don’t know you. An’ I don’t know if you know this but the city’s blacksmiths have been a wee bit uneasy, what with that silver thief scurryin’ about. Sod off.’

‘I’m aware.’ Geralt’s eyes darted towards the house, all its windows closed. ‘Is he inside? Just let me talk to him.’

‘None ya’ business, witcher. Now run along before I stick my foot up yer’ arse.’

The two men’s eyes locked and the large man’s hands turned to rocky fists. Geralt stared with icy eyes, then drew the Sign of Axii.

Abruptly, the man’s eyes fogged, and his jaw hung. He uncurled his fists and waddled his way towards the door and knocked. ‘Master. Someone’s ‘ere to see you. A witcher, says his name’s Geralt. Of Rivia.’ The door swung open a beat later, bashing the man on his nose as he stumbled back and fell onto the grimy cobblestone.

‘Geralt! Ah, sorry, Borin.’ He stepped over the dazed guard and shook Geralt’s hand heartily. ‘Greetings, friend. It’s been a long time. Come, come inside.’

Inside, the timber-framed house was adorned with shields and great spears on the wall. Copper goblets and plates sat on the round dining table. In the center was a gold-rimmed earthenware bowl filled with fruit and a boar’s head hung above the mantelpiece of painted amphoras and kraters. Upon the hearth lay a rug made from the skin of a black bear.

Geralt whistled. ‘You’ve made quite a living for yourself. Nilfgaardians giving you a lot of work?’

‘Yes, they are. And they pay most handsomely.’

‘That how you’ve got that brute outside?’

Éibhear grimaced. ‘Ah, yes, Borin. I’ve had him around for two weeks now, since the break in. A thief’s been running loose throughout the city, I’m afraid, and I can’t be too careful. Lost almost all my silver! And a particularly charming Koviri silver pendant too… Snatched right from the mantelpiece.’

‘I’ve been told. You’re not the only victim, correct?’

‘That’s right. The thief’s got a strange liking to the stuff, I say. Nothing but silver. Not gold, Crowns, nor precious stones. An odd, menacing one he is.’ The elf sighed and plopped down onto a cushioned chair. ‘Right, enough of that. What have you been doing? What brings you to Novigrad, Geralt?’

‘A wedding was what brought me here. But that’s not why I’ve come here, to you. I’ve been assigned a contract rather unexpectedly and my silver sword is sitting back home on a rack in Toussaint. So, I’ve come to you in hopes that you might have one to spare.’

‘Well,’ The elf stood up and unrolled the bear rug on the floor, exposing a painted wooden trap door on the hearth. ‘I had a shifty Zerrikanian client from a few months back, who had commissioned a silver sword for his collection. When he came to pick them up, he paid me an amount that was only half of what we agreed to. Naturally, I tried to withhold it from him, but he responded by sending homegrown thugs to my doorstep.’

The elf squeezed his fingers between the trap door and the hearth and lifted it up, revealing a large coffer sitting in the pit. He opened the coffer which contained an array of spears, daggers, and swords encased in scabbards. He carefully lifted a sword in a tan scabbard from the pile of weapons. ‘I handed them a silver-plated iron sword instead. Thankfully, the thugs weren’t as bright as they were brawny. Never heard from that customer since. I’ve kept it under the hearth for safekeeping, though I suppose it would be appropriate for you to have it now.’ 

Unsheathing it, Éibhear held the silver sword up with two hands, its slightly curved blade glinting in the sunlight. Its pommel formed the head of a bare-fanged dragon and its hilt a deep shade of burgundy.

Geralt took the blade from his hands, running his eyes along its length with an eager smile. ‘Your skills certainly haven’t waned in the slightest. A mighty fine blade.’ He gripped the hilt with two hands, and gave it a few, slow, horizontal slashes. ‘Its name?’

‘_Merrakenterment. _The red dragon.’

‘_Merrakenterment,_’ Geralt repeated. Reaching into his satchel, he produced a pouch of gold. ‘Here. The other half of the payment, and something a little more. For the silver you’ve lost.’

Éibhear beamed with pleasure. ‘They say wealth curbs generosity. I see your retirement’s done you well, yet you remain quite unstinting. I wish you luck, Geralt.’

* * *

The herbalist sat glumly on a desk, scribbling in a ledger with a hawk’s quill. When Geralt knocked, he groused, hopping down from his chair and padding his way towards the front door. Upon setting his eyes upon the patron, he grew eager for the business to come that witchers are known for providing.

‘Please, let yourself in. What is it you’re looking for? Beggartick for a chort? Fresh hornwort for a griffin? Perhaps some pringrape for those pestilent ghouls?’

‘Tallow, bear’s fat, and wolf’s liver oil, half an ounce each, compounded. A balisse fruit, a sprig of blowball, and three sprigs of fresh wolfsbane.’

‘Oof, I’m afraid I’m all out of fresh wolfsbane. Some pilferer up and purloined all of the fresh ‘uns from my garden just a week ago. Nearly blew my top when I saw it the next mornin’. The young saplings haven’t flowered yet, unfortunately. I’ve got some dried ones, if that suits ye?’

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him but did not react to the disclosure. ‘Fine, that should do. However much is equal to three fresh sprigs.’

The herbalist set to fetching the requested ingredients, pulling aside a step ladder to scrabble through carboys, jars, and flasks on a shelf that was taller than he was. 

Into a canvas pouch, he scooped three spoonfuls of the dried wolfsbane out of a copper cellar. The fats and liver oil he stirred into a round wooden cellar, while the blowball and balisse he picked out of window boxes. Tallying up the payment, he handed it it to Geralt. ‘Aye, that’ll be forty pieces.’

From his satchel, Geralt counted the pieces of crowns, and set it upon the herbalist’s desk. Taking the ingredients, he parted amicably with the halfling, and set out on his way.

The stallion was surprisingly assured, carrying him for the remainder of the journey with undaunted steps. Spurred firmly, it came into a steady canter on the dirt path, leaving dust in its wake. Riding through the unsightly countryside of Velen, ridden with shanties, smoke, rabid mutts, and their decrepit masters, the witcher focused his gaze onwards to the path, unrelenting to let it damper his state of mind.

He was going to do it quick, get the coin, and go home, he thought. No more of this pitiable, derelict place where thieves snatch silver and flowers.

When the village came to sight, Geralt caught a strong whiff of putrid flesh and dung. Though nothing unfamiliar to him, it was an indication that the Nilfgaardians had not done their job of cleaning up.

Pulling his horse into a stop fifty paces away, he flitted down from the saddle to size up his surroundings as he treaded closer. A hulking rotfiend sat on top of a disgustingly bloated corpse in the doorway of a hut. A smaller one was feeding on a decapitated leg by the well, along with two pestering alghouls who were trying to sink their teeth into the severed limb as well. 

The necrophages, who were particularly occupied with their feast, did not notice as the witcher crept through the surrounding huts, inching closer to the large devourer. Its teeth gnashed against the bones of the corpse as buzzing flies fluttered on its skin, still unaware of the unsheathed blade held just steps away from its back. In one swift motion, Geralt slashed through the repulsive creature, drawing a bloody, diagonal line from its shoulder to its hip. The sudden but clean kill did not give it a chance to explode into a flurry of gore and entrails. It dropped with a squelch to the ground, alerting the other necrophages of the witcher’s presence.

The alghouls hissed, the dark spines on their backs now extended and pointing straight out like stakes. The enraged rotfiend hurtled towards Geralt with a vile shriek with the alghouls following suit. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, the witcher casted a powerful eruption of Axii, sending the necrophages flying back towards the stone well. The rotfiend shrieked even louder, having been impaled on one of the alghouls deadly spines. Its cries grew more and more strangulated as its body ballooned, followed by a billow of guts and blood that painted the dirt and well a dirty crimson.

The two alghouls that remained charged again towards the witcher, their fangs dripping with foul saliva. The witcher drew the Sign of Quen, creating a radiant dome of gold surrounding him. Upon impact of the alghouls onslaught, the magical shield shattered, causing the necrophages to stagger. In a whirlwind, Geralt lunged at one of the downed alghouls, digging his sword deep into its heart and out between its shoulders. When the other alghoul leaped at him, he swiftly executed a pirouette, slicing its head clean off.

Sighing, Geralt sheathed his silver blade in its scabbard. Damn Nilfgaardians, he thought. He wondered briefly if he could convince them a fee for cleaning the place up.

Looking around, he stepped over the monster corpses towards one of the abandoned thatched huts, its door ajar. Inside, iron pots and skillets lay neatly upon the kitchen counter, a leather jacket hung upon a wooden stool, dried cosmos of various colors decorated the walls, and the beds, although dusty, were in an otherwise unmarred condition. The state of the home, which seemed to have been left in a hurry with plenty of valuables left behind, confirmed that the villagers had left abruptly in terror. 

The next few huts he investigated were all left in a similar state. The largest of all the huts, however, had a wooden roof in place of a straw one. It must have been the alderman’s, he pondered. The door of the alderman’s hut had been smashed to splinters and the doorframe was streaked with rust-red and littered with claw marks. On the inside, a bear trophy hung above the fireplace nestled in the back of the hut. A room to the left boasted bookshelves and a giant ash desk, upon which were a candelabra, books, and a quill and inkpot. On the opposite side of the hut was a room that contained a large bed and a rocking crib. A crib, he thought. None of the other homes had a crib nor a bassinet. Perhaps the man who approached him was the alderman of the village?

An empty barn stood on the edge of the village, looming over a noisy creak, its doors ajar. To Geralt’s surprise, no livestock could be found – living or dead. The threshing floor was barren, and so were the bays, save for the last one. Adding to the odd sight of an empty barn of a village that had been razed by a werewolf was a sizeable cage of iron. Its door and lock had been mangled and broken open, evidently from the inside by whatever it used to contain. The witcher stepped inside of it, crouching slightly. He noticed tufts of dark fur stuck to the corners of the dirty grates of the cage, as well as dried blood and deep, large claw marks. Pinching a tuft of hair between his fingers, he brought it close to his nose. It’s odour- a mixture of sulfur, feces, and mushrooms – was distinct to that of… a werewolf. That he was certain of. The witcher could also smell a hint of burnt hair on the fur. He stepped out of the cage, sighing, unsure of what to make of the revelation. He would need answers from the man when he had completed the job.

Outside, the sun was steadily setting over the darkening horizon, its golden rays penetrating the gaps between the planks of the barn wall. The witcher reached for the cellar, pouch, and the blowball and balisse from his satchel. Setting the ingredients on the threshing floor of the barn, he plucked the fluffy seed head of the blowball and crushed the balisse between his fingers. Utilizing a small piece of wood sitting on the barn floor, he stirred the ingredients in the wooden cellar, creating a noxious compound. He sealed the cellar and headed outside.

The werewolf would need to be lured into the open and out of its lair, and so a fresh, bloody carcass would be required. The old, rotten corpses would not suffice for werewolves strongly prefer fresh prey over putrid flesh, unlike the necrophages. The lair shouldn’t be more than a mile, he thought, which means that a herd wouldn’t be too far off either. At twilight, a good-sized herd would not be difficult to find browsing and grazing throughout the landscape.

* * *

A hind, its head held low between the leaves, chewed and gnashed at a forb. At a rustle, its head sprang up from the bushes. Her herd followed suit, one stag amongst a dozen hinds. Its ears twitched in alarm, watching out for movement between the trees with its dark eyes which was met by a pair of gleaming cat eyes that leapt from the dark sedges round the herd, scattering one but one lone hind. 

In a beat, the witcher held the Sign of Axii between its eyes. It compliantly tailed Geralt through the woods towards the ruined village, taking languid steps. The hind came to a halt next to a well in the center of the ruined village. The witcher took the old well rope and wound it around the hind’s neck and secured the other end on the well. 

By now, the sun had sunken completely beneath the horizon with the last remaining rays of light scattered as a dull shade of dark blue in the sky. The air had turned crisp, too, welcoming another night of chill over Velen.

The witcher tucked himself away behind a window of one of the empty huts, crouched low on the ground. He unsheathed his sword and opened the wooden cellar containing the mixture he had compounded, evenly spreading the oily mixture onto the blade. For a moment, he wondered if Yennefer and Ciri had come back from their excursion into town. Perhaps he should have asked Ciri to come along, but then again, he did not want to intrude on the time the two women were having together for he knew that Yennefer had missed her a tad more than he did since the last winter Ciri had come to Toussaint.

He peered outside the window, at the hind that had now laid down next to the well, its head resting on the stone. He sat back down to drink from the water skin he had been given and was unwrapping his sandwich when his ears picked up the sound of quiet footsteps on the dry grass. His hand quickly gripped the hilt of his sword as he focused in on the sounds outside. From the air seeping inside through window, the distinct scent of the lycanthrope floated in, his witcher’s nose detecting it. It had taken very quickly to the bait, he thought. 

Though hidden, Geralt knew the werewolf could very well have smelled his scent. Still crouching, he inched his way closer to the open door silently, his motions akin to a stalking panther. He continued to listen to the movement just outside, pinpointing the werewolf’s position by its footsteps. The hind, still under the influence of magic, kept silent and unmoving, not even tugging at the rope wound around its neck. Geralt could hear the beast claw at the ground and sniffing it, then the air.

A beat of silence passed, then, the abrupt noise of the werewolf lurching towards the hind, sinking its teeth into its neck. Geralt peered around the corner of the door, his golden eyes focused on the monster as it dug into the hind’s viscera, its back towards him.

The witcher rose slowly onto his feet, padding quietly towards the well, his sword at the ready. The monster kept at devouring the bait, oblivious of the witcher just a handful of steps away from it. A downward breeze blew strongly across the village, rustling the leaves and the dry bushes.

With a sharp snort, the werewolf snapped its head around, having picked up the scent of the witcher through the breeze. Its bright eyes locked with Geralt’s before it rose to its hind legs, easily towering over him. Its fangs bared in aggression; it lunged towards the witcher with its horrendous clawed paws. Geralt easily dodged the attack, whirling to the side in a flash. The werewolf turned around to jump again at the witcher but was met with a face full of red flames. It screeched in pain as the fire licked at its face, its voice somewhere between that of a wolf’s howl and a human scream.

Geralt quickly closed the distance between him and the beast, performing an uppercut that sliced the flesh from its torso to its shoulder. In an enraged retaliation, the werewolf swiped sideways with its claws, missing Geralt’s face by a hair’s width. Dropping down to all fours, it began to run in a wide circle around the witcher, trailing blood on the grass. Pivoting one foot on the ground, Geralt drew the Sign of Aard to throw off the werewolf’s footing as it encircled him, clearly trying to catch the witcher off guard with a sudden pounce. The beast stumbled and the witcher nimbly leaped off the grass with a dash, sword in both hands and pointed towards the werewolf’s breast.

The werewolf ducked its head, crouched, and caught Geralt’s hip with its jaws as the witcher came flying down on it. The brigandine, though thick and firm, was made of leather, which proved to be ineffective against a werewolf’s bite. Its yellowed fangs bore deep into his pelvis, nearly crushing it while its claws held the witcher down by his legs and chest.

With a pained scream, Geralt dug his sword on the beast’s shoulder, causing it to release its deathly maw from his hip, screeching once again. It staggered backwards before it began to flee in the direction of the woods, disappearing between the trees.

‘Fuck,’ the witcher cursed to himself. Standing up with great difficulty, he looked down upon the bloody punctures now upon his left hip. It fled, he thought. Into the woods, he needed to track it down, quick. Before it ran into some poor soul wandering the paths near the woods at night.

He limped as he followed the trail of blood on the grass and the dirt between the birch trees. If not for his witcher’s vigor and strength, he would be dead, he thought. Though, he wished he had concocted a healing elixir earlier. Or was he just getting slow?

The half-moon was now shining like a lantern over the dark forest, illuminating the white bark of the trees and casting long shadows upon the earth. 

Geralt picked up his pace, continuing on the path of blood that the werewolf had left in its wake. Its blood-clotting capabilities had evidently been hindered, seeing as how much it was bleeding. Eventually, the trail ended in a small clearing, though the werewolf was nowhere to be seen.

Geralt stepped carefully towards a pond, his golden eyes shining in the moonlight and scanning the trees around him. A creeping growl came from behind him, and the witcher whirled around to cast Ignii. The flames only dissipated into the air as the werewolf lunged low towards him, its bare fangs ready to dig again into the witcher’s flesh. Jumping back, Geralt landed into the shallow pond. 

The werewolf swung its claws wildly in a mixture of aggression and desperation, clearly becoming just as enervated as the witcher was. Its claws managed to make contact with his wrist, knocking the sword from his grip and it landed far, out of reach in the mud.

Geralt dashed towards the sword, the monster following suit, its hungry maw dripping with blood and saliva. As he gripped the sword, the witcher executed a half-piroutte, slashing the werewolf’s carotid. It began to wheeze and stagger as its crimson blood poured from its neck, dyeing the pond water red. The witcher delivered his final thrust into its ribs, piercing its heart. Silently and still wide-eyed and bare-fanged, the werewolf collapsed into the shallow waters.

Geralt, too, fell onto his knees, his breathing heavy and strained. He swore again, now at the wound on his forearm. A deep, perpendicular slash that oozed crimson over the length of his right arm. He padded the wound gingerly with his fingers before ripping off a strip of cloth from the leg of his trousers. He noticed too, that at some point of the altercation, that he had lost his leather belt. The strip of cloth he turned into a tourniquet which he wound tightly around his upper arm. His head was now throbbing with an awful headache and he was beginning to feel light-headed. Yennefer was not going to be particularly delighted.

He rose to his feet with a grunt and swore that he’d lost more blood than he thought he had when he heard a muffled bawl. He shut his eyes to focus on the sound. 

He walked away from the pond to an opening in the ground that was facing away from the waters. It came from inside it. The bawling was now louder that he stood upon what was seemingly the mouth of a den. 

Geralt squatted down to see that the deeper into the den, the stone floor was almost completely covered by jewelry, plates, bowls, and cutlery. Slightly crouched, he made his way into the den, which smelled strongly of wolfsbane. The heart of the den was decorated with the plant, some fresh and some dried. Some were hung upside down from the dirt ceiling, and some were scattered loosely on the floor. 

Though dark, he could make out a wicker bassinet sitting in the corner, along with a few sticks of unlit candles and an empty bowl. He carefully approached the bassinet which was adorned with silver necklaces and peered into the wailing bundle of linen inside it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I noticed a surge in hits for this right after the Netflix series came out which really motivated me to keep going. For a while, I lost the drive to keep on writing since it is my first story and sometimes I think 'who the hell would wanna read this?' but then I also realized that that's just kind of a silly thought and that my reason for writing is to create something I can enjoy and that others can enjoy. 
> 
> Anyways, I've got a tumblr account now at buttercupbill.tumblr.com. I post mostly Witcher stuff right now, but I do post other video game-related posts. 
> 
> Let me know what you think so far!


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